


ladies and gentlemen, lets get ready to rumble!

by heythereghosts



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Boxing, Drabbe, One Shot, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, hermann did not, newt forgot to do the group project, newt's a rowdy teen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 00:50:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heythereghosts/pseuds/heythereghosts
Summary: In which Newt gets into boxing, has poor impulse control, and destroys a security guard's car.





	ladies and gentlemen, lets get ready to rumble!

**Author's Note:**

> I was very passionate at 2 am about Newt getting into boxing and wrote this instead of sleeping, enjoy.

You first begin boxing at age 17 in your dad's old garage. Your uncle has an old punching bag tucked away in storage, back when he used to be a boxer. You find it while rummage for an axe, something about chopping a log? You can’t even remember what the plan was. Your brain runs way too fast, switches from idea to idea in a moments notice. Chews them up and than spits them out like a wad of gum. First flavorful and solid, than dull and scrambled.  
  
You don’t know why you’re so fascinated with the bag, but for some reason you can’t help but feel drawn to it. You think about dragging it out and giving it a test run. After all, you have been trying to find a positive outlet for your anger anyways, why not give it a whirl? Okay, first notice: Your punches are way too sporadic and messy, totally not ones of a boxer. These moves are more of a kids, reckless and manic, no thought or precision. It’s just you, your fists, and _terrible_ lack of impulse control.  
  
A few days later you are arrested- well actually you were given a ticket, but arrested sounds cooler -for wrecking a car. Or, well, you _technically_ didn’t wreck it. You broke one headlight, that _hardly_ even counts. Also you’re literally a rebellious angry punk teenager, what else did they expect!? Honestly, they should’ve totally predicted this shit. You don’t just give a kid a baseball bat while living near a dump, and _not_ expect him to break a few things in said dump. Even if those things are sometimes the security guards car.  
  
After you get back home and have a painfully long talk with your dad and uncle, you go back to the garage. You rummage around and pull out the ol’ punching bag, take a note to wrap your hands up, even though you know you’re not going to, take out your shitty old cracked iPod, put on something fast and showy with a good bass, maybe some Queen or Rancid, and begin the match.  
  
Your punches are a bit more better than last time, slightly less sporadic, more of a rhythm to it. You hit with your right, than left, than right. One two one two, yeah yeah that’s it, you’re totally getting the hang of this! As time passes by, your punches begin to get more sluggish and exhausted, almost like slow motion Matrix style, but way more tired.

You groan and lean against the wall as beads of sweat run down your face, arms sore and tired, shirt completely soaked. Your lungs feel like they’re on fire, you cough a few times, try and catch your breath. You get up with a big dorky grin on your face as you wipe the sweat from your neck, glasses drooping down low on your nose and hair all mussed up. _God_ you need a shower. But sadly, before you can even attempt act on that thought, your dad yells from the living room.  
  
“Ayyyy Newt dinners ready! You’re doing the dishes tonight, price of getting a ticket. Also a kid from your school, Hermann Gottlieb I think? Called and asked about you, something about a group project”  
  
Oh god dammit.

 


End file.
